Of Other Times
by The Lady Luthien
Summary: Faramir reflecting onas the title suggestsother times before he heads into the battle to retake Osgiliath. Please review.


**A/N: **A short one-shot I wrote about a year ago. The italics are Faramir's thoughts. REVIEW!

**Disclaimer:** It all belongs to the wonderful J.R.R. Tolkien. Happy 114th Professor.

**Of Other Times**

The youngest son of Lord Denethor let his head fall softly against the white stonewalls, leaning on it for support. He sighed-something he found himself doing more and more since Boromir's departure from Rivendell. He remembered it like it was only yesterday…

_'The flag bearing Gondor's insignia was found caught in a strong North wind. It whipped around proudly, as if it too fought bravely for its country. The sign of the White Tree brought hope to the wearied men and women of Minas Tirith. It certainly stirred up embers of pride in me. Over the years of my youth, those embers steadily built up to a large fire of pride and loyalty. If only Denethor knew these thoughts. Maybe if he knew, he would think differently of his youngest son. Alas! He does not. Even now, in these times of turmoil, he doubts my ability to lead. Does he truly think that I would willingly lead my men into danger? Would I sacrifice someone's brother or father or husband because I had taken an uneducated guess?_

_Boromir never had to fight the way I do. I do not speak of battle, but a war of wits with our father. Boromir has always been able to get his way. It is not Boromir's fault however-he is weary of the old man as well. But, the uneasiness in his eldest son's eyes is not apparent to him when they speak together. With Boromir, he is blind, but every error or trivial sin I commit has been seen and scrutinized. His eyes on that day when I offered to take the Ring to Boromir, they told me so much more than his words…'_

Here, Faramir paused his vivid memories, for the pain in them was too great. Sorrow washed over him like a soft summer breeze. If he did this too often, he would break like a well-worn spear. Do not mistake the context of this passage-Faramir is in no means weak-only wearied.

He had to deal with a lot since his brother died. Denethor had pretty much submitted to insanity and was no longer fit to lead Gondor. That didn't stop him from occupying the Steward's chair. Even though Denethor had the title, Faramir was in control, as much as he could be. He commanded the army, the land, and the people. If he built up a reputation, or managed little to no harm to come to the White City maybe his father's eyes would fill with joy instead of the disappointment that permanently resides in his two empty sockets. This was highly unlikely, but even if it did happen, Denethor would never just hand over the city. He was a prideful man and would retain his dignity to his dying day. You must not confuse the want of power with the care and tenderness that Faramir used in his efforts. He was not power hungry-he only did what he deemed best for his people.

Then, there were the whispers to deal with. 'Whispers of a nameless fear,' some were calling it. The valiant soldiers of Gondor no longer walked so confidently, but rather flicked their eyes across the plains, where Mordor was visible. They themselves were afraid of what was to happen. For months now, the rumors of Mordor rising again had seeped into the country like the plague. It started with one person and soon it had spread to every corner of the city. At first the rumors were deemed silly but the words seemed to have taken hold of the people, no matter how they appeared to shrug it off. Faramir could only bow his head when he saw the women brushing away forbidden tears behind the backs of the sons. They knew-as well as Faramir did-that any day could be their last to spend with their sons. It was disheartening to even walk down the streets anymore. This fear claimed the hearts of many.

The people looked to him for answers. With Denethor gone in mind, they looked to him for comfort. Everyone wants answers. They all want his time. Faramir is only one man. So what does the youngest in the line of Stewards do? He raises himself off the ground, where he had been thinking. He straps his helmet onto his head and tells a guard to gather his battalion. They were going to recapture Osgiliath.

He remembered what he said to his father as his footsteps echoed on the marble. "Think better of me, Father. If I should return."

"That will depend on the manner of your return," Denethor had said in reply.

Victory. That was the goal. Certain death might be the outcome, but victory-a victory for his people-that was his heart's desire. He wished now, as he mounted his horse and began the slow funeral march in the streets, that Boromir was still alive. That these were other times. If Boromir had survived, if the Ring had never come about, things would be different, Faramir knew.

The gate was opening before him. He raised his sword, and began to trot on his horse. Faramir hoped that he would see his bright city again.


End file.
